My stomach dropped as I clicked on the most recent file. The timestamp wasn’t from weeks ago when her dad left. It was from ten minutes ago.
The video was shaky, angled upward from the bear’s perspective on the passenger seat of my car where Iâd left it. But it wasn’t recording the empty car. Through the bear’s speaker, a voice cracked outâtinny, distorted, but unmistakable.
“Maya? Sweetie? Did you bring me inside? Why is it dark?”
It was my ex-husband, David.
I froze. Maya hadn’t just been “talking” to the bear; she had been having a conversation. The “glued to her teddy bear” phase wasn’t about comfort; it was about communication. He had installed a two-way monitor.
I clicked on a file dated yesterday. The camera angle showed my living room. Maya was holding the bear close to her face, whispering.
“I miss you too, Daddy. No, Mommy doesn’t know. Yes, I remember the game. Hide the key under the mat. Leave the window unlocked.”
My blood ran cold. The “protective” behavior… she wasn’t protecting the toy; she was protecting the secret.
I scrambled to check the other files. Days of footage. Me sleeping. Me arguing on the phone with my lawyer. He had been watching everything. He knew my schedule, my route, and exactly which window Maya had left unlatched.
Suddenly, a new window popped up on my laptop screen: “Device Connection Lost.”
I looked down at the bear on the desk. The red light had stopped blinking.
Then, from downstairs, I heard the distinct, creaking sound of the living room window sliding open.
“Maya?” a voice whispered from the darkness below. “Daddy’s home.”
I slammed the laptop shut and ran for my daughterâs room.
